


All Things Considered

by Weisse_Rose



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: All the Hurt/Comfort Tags!, Comfort, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hugs, Hurt, Hurt Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, No Porn, Protective John, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-04-16
Packaged: 2018-01-13 20:58:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1240576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weisse_Rose/pseuds/Weisse_Rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the hurt/comfort equivalent to porn without plot. Sherlock gets exposed to a fear drug. And that's the plot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John Watson was running down a dark alley, cursing Sherlock under his breath. _Every time. Every single time._ Of course, Sherlock couldn't wait two minutes for John before dashing after the suspect on his own.

John had his gun in hand and was about to round a corner when he heard a yelp and a loud thud. He cautiously peeked around the wall and saw somebody lying on the ground at the other end of the alleyway. He glanced around but there was nobody else in sight.

Gun drawn, he made his way towards the crumbled figure. Halfway down the alley he could already make out the familiar Belstaff coat and a mob of black hair. _Dammit, Sherlock._ He quickly ran up to the lifeless figure, then past him to check if anybody was lying in wait, but there was no trace of the suspect.

He knelt down to check on Sherlock. A careful inspection of his wrist revealed a small puncture, probably caused by a needle. He leaned in closer for a better look, but froze mid-movement when Sherlock jerked back violently. 

Sherlock freed himself from John's grasp and drew back against the wall of the alley. His eyes were wild and unfocused. John could see that he was having trouble breathing as well. _Fuck._

John moved very slowly so as to avoid agitating his distressed friend any further. He sat down in an attempt to look even less threatening, then slowly pulled out his phone and called Lestrade.

The inspector didn't even bother with pleasantries. "Tell me you've got good news for me."

"Well, if by good news you mean almost catching your suspect and getting Sherlock injected with a lethal substance in the process, then yes, I have good news for you." John tried to calm himself down. There was no need to lash out at Lestrade, who had done nothing wrong. "Can you send an ambulance immediately? The last street sign I saw was John Adams Street, we took a left going south. I think." 

"John."

John could tell that Greg had some bad news of his own and didn't know how to share them.

"Out with it, Greg."

"I just spoke with the doctors at St. Bart's. The last patient who was brought in with these symptoms – elevated heart rate, hallucinations, panic attacks – they tried to put him into an artificial coma. They already knew that they couldn't use sedatives from what happened to the others. He didn't make it either." John could hear Lestrade take a deep breath before he continued. "That means out of the 14, well now 15 cases, of infection that we know of, only two men are still alive. Most died of heart attacks, some died of the interaction effect with sedatives. The doctors here don't know of any way to treat this thing."

John had already known these facts but now it hit him with brute force. _Sherlock is going to die._ He replayed Lestrade's words in his head.

"Wait. You said two men are still alive. Who else?"

"Frank Wilkins. He was injected with the drug last night. He is at home with his family. The doctors say it is too early to tell, but it looks like he's going to pull through. I was advised by the hospital staff here that we shouldn't bring in any new victims, but rather put them in a familiar environment that could help to calm them down. There is nothing they can do for them at the hospital."

"Greg, can you-"

"I already sent a car to pick you two up and get you to Baker Street."

"Thanks."

"Take care."

John hung up the phone and focussed all his attention on the panicked man before him. Sherlock was mumbling something incomprehensible. He was staring wildly from side to side and swatting at something only he could see.

John carefully inched closer to him. He kept his voice very low.

"Sherlock." There was no reaction from his friend. "Sherlock, can you hear me?"

John caught one of Sherlock's hands in an effort to get his attention. It was pretty clear that Sherlock was experiencing some sort of hallucination. John felt for the pulse point on his wrist and realized that his heart rate was dangerously high as well.

Sherlock finally noticed his presence. His eyes focussed on John's face and he seemed to come back to his senses a bit. Sherlock lifted his other hand and tentatively touched John's face, as if to make sure that he was really there and not just a figment of his imagination.

"What happened?" Even though he made a valiant effort to hide it, John could still detect the edge of panic in Sherlock's voice. It pained him to see his friend incapacitated like this.

"You were chasing the suspect." John stopped himself from adding 'On your own. Again.' This wasn't the time for accusations. "It seems you caught up with him and he was able to inject you with the substance. Do you remember any of this?"

Sherlock shook his head. His movements seemed dazed and slow to John.

"It's all a blur."

Suddenly, Sherlock looked at his hand and John saw a look of raw panic cross his face.

"Blood." He was stammering and visibly shaking. His voice was so unlike his usual commanding and collected tone that it was almost unrecognisable. "There's b-b-blood on your face. You're hurt." Without warning, Sherlock grabbed John's head with both hands and moved it first to the left and then to the right as if to check for injuries.

John took a deep breath and put his hands over Sherlock's on his face. He caught Sherlock's eye and tried to make his voice sound calm and reassuring. "I'm fine. Everything is alright. There's no blood. You are hallucinating. Focus, Sherlock. Remember the case. Remember the symptoms of the drug. You have been exposed."

Sherlock gave John's face another scrutinising look. It reminded John a lot of the concentrated look he normally wore and John felt a small wave of relief rush through him.

Reluctantly, Sherlock pulled his hands away from John's face and leaned back against the wall of the alley. He closed his eyes and mumbled something which sounded like "Sorry." John decided that he must have misheard. Sherlock never apologised.

John rubbed his hand over his eyes. He felt out of his depths. He could handle angry Sherlock, even petulant brooding Sherlock, but he had no idea what to do with the scared man in front of him.

He was relieved to see the promised police car pull up at the entry to the alley and quickly got to his feet. He reached out his hand to help Sherlock to his feet, and was surprised when his friend pulled himself up on the alley wall instead. Sherlock very deliberately kept a distance between himself and John when they slowly made their way over to the police car.

John tried not to feel hurt as he got into the car. This was about helping Sherlock survive the next few hours. He would have to set his own feelings aside and focus on whatever it was that Sherlock needed from him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dear reader! I have no medical knowledge whatsoever. Additionally, I am sorry to say that this was written with zero research. Let me know if you see any mindbogglingly inaccurate assumptions.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This story is being beta'd & britpicked by [Yoite](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Yoite) , who requested more angst for this chapter.
> 
> Warning for graphic depictions of injury.

Sherlock sat down heavily in the police car. When the car pulled into the hectic London traffic, he realised that he was hunched down in his corner of the seat, hugging himself tightly. He immediately put his arms down and forced his muscles to relax. He could tell that he wasn't fooling anybody, least of all John.

 _This is purely chemical_ , he told himself for the tenth time. _A predictable chemical reaction with a defined structure and outcome. You are in control. This will all be over soon._

He chanced a glance over at John and immediately his thoughts returned to how he had seen him in the alley, covered in his own blood. He quickly closed his eyes. Images flashed before him, visions of John with a red dot on his forehead, explosives strapped to his jacket.

He could almost physically feel a knot forming in his chest. All the air had suddenly left his lungs and he was unable to breath for a moment. His fists were clenching and unclenching. _Control. I am in control. My emotions do not rule me. Neurotransmitters do not rule me._ He clearly remembered the moment in the alley when John had told him that he was not actually hurt and Sherlock had been so relieved, he had almost shot forward and enveloped him in a tight hug. It did not take his genius mind to deduce what would have happened next. _Unacceptable_. Sherlock Holmes does not break down sobbing. Especially not in front of John. _Especially_ not in John's arms.

He took a deep breath and concentrated on slowing his erratic heartbeat. It was easier to focus on the physical symptoms. Sherlock thought he had managed to slow it a little when he was suddenly distracted by a sharp metallic smell. _Blood_. He quickly looked around but couldn't make out any obvious source. He mentally added olfactory hallucinations to his list of symptoms. Sherlock was distracted for a moment from his predicament as he analysed how similar the imagined smell was to that of actual blood. He could almost taste it on the tip of his tongue.

Sherlock closed his eyes again and tried to retreat to the safety of his mind palace. After a few frustrating seconds, he gave up. Wandering through the halls of his mind palace always required focus and concentration. He needed to separate himself from his physical transport. Right now, it seemed that it didn't want to let him go. He was drawn back by one distraction or other, his erratic heart beat, the sweat forming on his brow, the itching in his hand.

He opened his eyes with a frustrated growl and turned his face to the window. His eyes went wide with shock as he looked straight at an oncoming silver Volvo about to hit the side of the police car. He tried to brace himself for the impact while his mind was running at full throttle, analysing the situation. They were at a crossing with traffic lights and from the positioning of the vehicles it looked like the Volvo had run a red light, hoping to make it across before the oncoming traffic started up. The police car was first in queue and had just started rolling slowly forward when it was hit with a brutal force from the left side. Sherlock saw all of this in the millisecond it took the other car to run into them. He made a quick calculation and realized that he had zero chance of survival. He started to wonder if there was any possible action he could take to increase John's chances when the impact of the collision drove all conscious thought from his mind.

Sherlock had expected pain, but instead he felt a strange weightlessness. He became aware of gravity again and realized that he was lying on the roof of the upturned car. He had neglected to fasten his seat belt. Sherlock looked around dazedly. Everything was upside-down and blurry. In the back of his mind was a nagging thought. _You shouldn't be alive_. He looked over to John and his heart stopped. A large, sharp piece of metal was lodged in his chest. Sherlock could see a thin line of blood dripping down from his mouth. _This is wrong. This is all wrong_. Sherlock tried to think in spite of the haze that was quickly enveloping his mind. There was no possible way the accident he had just witnessed could have resulted in John's injury at this angle. Furthermore, there was no way Sherlock himself could still be breathing. _I'm hallucinating_. It was the only possible explanation of all the facts. He sat up and tried to focus. _Snap out of it. Snap out of it_. He heard a groan from John and, despite his better judgement, turned to look at him. 

There was a short moment of confusion and then a panicked look spread over John's face that shot a cold pain down Sherlock's spine. He could see that his friend understood the situation perfectly and knew there was no possible chance of survival for him. John should have been dizzy or, most probably, not even conscious. Yet he was neither and the look of raw horror on his face tore at Sherlock's insides. 

Sherlock felt cold dread spread through him. He saw, with perfect clarity, a vision of himself sitting in his armchair in Baker Street, his bare feet on the floor. On his face a thousand yard stare into nothingness, boring unseeingly into the empty chair across from him. Darkness engulfed him and he desperately wished to be back in the car with John. The real, breathing, alive version of John. In that moment, he would have reached out to John if he could have, his pride be damned. But his muscles seemed frozen and he couldn't even force his eyes open. It felt like he was being dragged down into a dark, empty void and was powerless to stop it. He was unable to draw another breath. 

Suddenly, the detective felt a warm presence by his side and a hand on his arm. He could hear somebody say his name, as if from a great distance. _John_. Sherlock focused on that voice and slowly followed it back to reality. It felt like climbing up a long way towards the surface. He could feel the seat at his back again and the comforting weight of the Belstaff coat around him. 

"Sherlock, can you hear me? Sherlock?"

Sherlock finally opened his eyes and turned to look at John. He could see John's eyes go wide as the doctor took in his expression. Sherlock had dropped the thin mask of composure he had been trying to hold on to. His features were open and unguarded. Sherlock feared that John could see everything, his wild panic, as well as his desire to reach out for comfort.

\----------------------------------------------------------------

Constable Mike Warburton pulled up into a rare parking space in Baker Street and wondered why he always got stuck with these dull tasks of driving people around like a goddamn chauffeur. Mike turned around to tell his latest two taxi guests that they had reached their destination. He had never given much credence to the rumours going around Scotland Yard about these two. Now, he was looking at Sherlock Holmes, celebrated hat detective and genius crime solver, staring at the army doctor that followed him around like he was stuck in the desert and John was a bottle of water. It made Mike a little uncomfortable. He cleared his throat to get the two men's attention, but their gazes were locked on each other and neither was paying any attention to him. 

"Um, we've arrived at Baker Street."

Again, no reaction. _I don't have time for this_. Mike 'accidentally' brushed the car horn on the steering wheel, which gave a short, loud noise. John and Sherlock jumped as if caught in a compromising position and looked around in confusion for a second. It actually looked quite funny from where Mike was sitting. 

"We're here."

This time, they did hear him. Sherlock hastily exited the car, paying no attention to the traffic. He almost collided with a passing biker. The biker yelled some profanity which Mike could not make out. John quickly thanked him and left his car as well. Mike stared after the two men for a moment, wondering what kind of glamorous life they led.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock stumbled more than walked into the flat. John made a move to support him, but Sherlock swatted his hand away. 

He made his way over to the couch, sat down and drew his knees up to his chest. Meanwhile, John hovered in the living room, unsure what to do. He knew what he wanted to do, which was to sit down on the couch next to the detective and envelop Sherlock in a bear hug. He had always felt protective of the man, making sure he slept and ate at acceptable intervals, but now he felt an almost overwhelming desire to offer some form of comfort to the detective. However, he was all to aware of the signals Sherlock was giving him and didn't even for a moment entertain the illusion that the gesture would be welcome.

John sighed and went for the most comforting thing he could think of that he knew Sherlock wouldn't refuse. “I'll make us some tea.” He went into the kitchen, put the kettle on and rummaged through the cupboards for two clean cups. When he turned around, he was startled by the sight of Sherlock standing next to the kitchen table. Sherlock had a sheepish look, as if he himself wasn't quite sure why he had followed John into the kitchen. Abruptly, he turned around and walked away again. John frowned after him.

When John returned to the living room, two saucers with cups in his hands, he saw that Sherlock had carelessly thrown the Belstaff over the arm chair, forcing John to sit down on the couch. He sat down carefully next to Sherlock and placed the tea on the table in front of him. 

“So. How do you feel?” 

Sherlock gave him an icy stare that didn't fool John for a second. 

“I'm fine. Stop asking.” 

“Hm.” 

John started drumming his fingers on the table nervously, at a loss for words.

“Wanna watch some telly?” 

There was the icy glare again, clearly hiding something. John shrugged and turned the telly on. 

If he had been questioned about it later, John couldn't, for the life of him, have named a single thing they watched that night. His whole attention was focussed on Sherlock, his expression, his body language. He seemed to be dealing exceptionally well with the drug. Suspiciously well.

Sometime during the evening, John noticed that Sherlock had scooted closer to him on the couch, as their legs and shoulders were now touching. Sherlock was clearly going for some sort of medal in the art of mixed messaging, John thought angrily. He seemed to be using every opportunity to get closer to him, but whenever John tried to offer the smallest bit of comfort, Sherlock drew back immediately.

Through their points of contact, John could feel the tension running through Sherlock's body. On the outside, he appeared calm and relaxed, but John had a lot of opportunities to see Sherlock's various masks in action and knew this was just a front. John decided to gamble. He slowly lifted his hand and put it over Sherlock's where it rested on the detective's thigh. 

John held his breath while he waited for the inevitable withdrawal. To his utter surprise, Sherlock responded by turning his hand palm up and intertwining their fingers. John had mixed feelings about his success. On the one hand, he was thrilled that Sherlock had finally accepted a gesture of comfort, however small it may be. On the other hand, exactly this acceptance made John wonder how bad Sherlock's condition really was. He tried again to get a clear reading on the detective's mood, who continued to stare at the telly, not acknowledging in any way that they were holding hands.

Another tense hour passed like this, both of them watching the telly without seeing. Then all of a sudden, Sherlock's hand tightened almost painfully around John's. His breathing became fast and shallow. There were other telltale signs of a panic attack John immediately recognized. Yet Sherlock seemed hell-bent on pretending he was fine. When John felt a slight tremor go through him, he decided that he'd had enough of this.

Without a word, he turned on the couch and wrapped his free arm around Sherlock's shoulder. The position was awkward and he had to half-straddle the detective in order to reach around him. Sherlock froze and for a second John worried that he had overstepped the mark and Sherlock would bolt from the room.

Tense seconds passed by, with Sherlock utterly rigid and John afraid that any further movement would scare the detective off completely. Then, from one heartbeat to the next, Sherlock sagged into his arms. Sherlock's free hand grabbed the back of John's jumper and the detective burrowed his head in between John's neck and shoulder. His whole body started to shake and John removed his arm from Sherlock's back to draw his hand soothingly through the detective's hair. 

It seemed to John that they had spent a long time like this, when he noticed that Sherlock was mumbling something into his neck. He strained to make out the words and realized with a start that it was just his name, repeated over and over again, like a litany. _John. John. John. John._ The realization tore at something inside him and he held on tighter to his friend. “Shh, I'm right here.”


	4. Epilogue

John woke up to a searing pain in his back. His neck was screaming bloody murder at him as well. As if that weren't enough, there was also a heavy weight sprawled on top of him and he had slight difficulty breathing due to something soft partially blocking his nose.

He barely held back a sneeze and opened his eyes groggily. The first thing he saw was a mop of curly black hair and he realized with a start that he was lying on the couch, with Sherlock on top of him. He groaned and tried to stretch his limbs a little. This resulted in a stabbing pain in his left shoulder, which send him a spontaneous petition to please avoid sleeping on the couch in the future. It was also signed by his neck, lower back and left arm, which was pinned by Sherlock's weight. It was just now slowly coming back to life with a sensation like prickling needles.

John put his discomfort aside for a moment and focussed on Sherlock. The detective seemed to be fast asleep. His breathing was even and he was snoring a little. John grinned and barely managed to suppress a fit of hysteric giggles. Somehow he had never pictured the world's only consulting detective as a snorer. He lifted his right hand and affectionately stroked one of the curls which had fallen onto his face aside. However, much like the man himself, the curl stubbornly refused to be told where to be and fell right back. John couldn't stop smiling, in spite of the distracting pain in his back.

He looked at Sherlock's face, peaceful and serene, and was hit with a surprisingly strong feeling of protectiveness. Sherlock looked impossibly young and innocent in his sleep. John felt the nonsensical urge to keep Sherlock here, in his arms, on this couch, away from the idiots who called him a freak and the criminals intent on hurting him. For a second, he fought the urge, then he simply wrapped his arms around Sherlock and held him tightly. He buried his head in the black curls and breathed in.

John reflected that he had made a lot of vows in his life, some ceremonial, others only to himself. They had defined him as a doctor and as a soldier. Now, with the madman who had forever changed his life in his arms, he made another. _Whatever it takes, whatever happens._ John recalled Sherlock thoughtfully looking at the pill the cabbie handed him, remembered the red dots of the sniper rifle on Sherlock's forehead. _I swear I will always be there_. Sherlock stirred in his arms and John reluctantly released his tight hold on him. 

Sherlock looked at him sleepily. It was the most adorable thing John had ever seen in his life. Then, in the span of a heartbeat, the calculating intelligence returned to his eyes. He stared at John thoughtfully with the expression that always made John wonder if he was trying to deduce the texture of his soul.

“Thank you.”

John felt that Sherlock was trying to say a lot of things in those two words. It was very different from his mumbled gratitude at the pool. Sherlock's voice was hoarse from sleeping and he didn't break eye contact for a second. John was overwhelmed with a multitude of feelings that he couldn't put into words.

 _Always._

“Anytime.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter is appallingly short and I apologize for that. Originally, it had a scene in which Sherlock gave John a massage for his pain, but then it didn't really fit in the narrative any more (IMHO). Feel free to add it in your head cannon. 
> 
> As always, I am very grateful for any feedback/comment (constructive or destructive) on my work.


End file.
